


There Is No Darkness

by citizenblue



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citizenblue/pseuds/citizenblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9:34 Dragon: Knight-Lieutenant Trevelyan leaves Ferelden for her new assignment in Val Royeaux. There, her faith in both the Order and the Maker will be tested, pitting her even against the Chantry itself. But she discovers the love of an alluring Seeker, too, and it is this that truly alters her view of the world.</p><p>9:41 Dragon: The sky breaks apart with the fury of demons, and all those who attended the Conclave perish. Only Trevelyan, long thought missing, emerges alive. In the dungeons beneath Haven's Chantry, Templar and Seeker are reunited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maker's Will

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this story doesn't mean that I'm not continuing The Lay of First-Thaw. I like to have multiple projects on the burner at the same time, so I'll be updating both, semi-simultaneously. I am in the middle of a big move, though, so I may not be entirely regular with updates.
> 
> Spoilers for all of DA:I, but no spoilers for DLC.
> 
> \---
> 
> 07/04/16 NOTE:  
> I'm in the middle of a big move, so it might be a couple of days before I post again.

**MAKER, MY ENEMIES ARE ABUNDANT. MANY ARE THOSE WHO RISE UP AGAINST ME.**

>> 9:41 Dragon | Haven    
>> Present Day

The tree stood tall and strong and triumphant, though to tell the truth its bark had begun to crumble beneath the onslaught it had only just begun to endure. Sap coated her knuckles in a thin layer, digging into the loose pockets of skin between her fingers. Her wrists trembled.

She heard someone fall irreverently to their knees behind her.

“Lady Pentaghast,” said the elf, falling over her words. “Sister Leliana would like to see you now. She-She says the survivor o-or… the prisoner…”

“Spit it out.”

“She is awake, messere.”

Cassandra Pentaghast restrained the urge to assault the tree again as she turned to face the servant. “Maker, stop prostrating yourself. Get up.”

“Y-yes, messere!”

The elf stumbled as she ran off. Cassandra suppressed the characteristic ripple that tickled the base of her throat. The silent exhale that had emerged in lieu of the disgusted noise dampened the air around her lips, leaving behind the illusion of frost. Cassandra tracked mud through the snow as she plowed through that frosty dissipating mist. She pressed her palms against the Chantry doors.

She had not yet seen this survivor for herself. The apostate had seen to the unconscious woman's health while she herself had tirelessly split her time between killing demons and hitting trees. All in an attempt to forget that the woman she had been charged to protect and the man she had once called a good friend had both died.

Her gaze hardened when she caught glimpse of Leliana's apologetic expression.

“ _This_ is who survived?”

Evelyn Trevelyan looked up from her hand. A sharp intake of breath. An excess of energy sizzled, bursting past the severed skin of her split palm, crackling like hot oil.

Cassandra's voice stayed even; “Tell me why we shouldn't kill you right now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for _you_.”

“You think I'm responsible.”

“Explain _this_ ,” Cassandra hissed as she grabbed Trevelyan's hand.

“I can't,” she whispered.

“What do you mean you can't?”

“I don't know what that is or how it got there, now--”

Cassandra lunged forward; “--You're lying!”

Trevelyan did not flinch, though it hadn't mattered. Leliana pushed the Seeker back, her mere presence forcing her towards the door.

“Cassandra,” she said softly. “We need her. But if you cannot do this…”

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

Trevelyan pursed her lips as the Seeker neared and unshackled her wrists. The Nightingale had already left the dungeon and the silence had become narcotic between the two remaining woman. For a moment, she thought that the Seeker's hands had become gentle.

The cold air burned Trevelyan's still yet lethargic lungs.

“We call it 'the Breach,'” Cassandra said as they walked through Haven. “It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It's not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

“You don't actually believe that I could be capable of something like this.”

The Seeker's voice had become hard and accusing; “Do I?”

Trevelyan did not have time to react, to feel the burn radiating through her chest:

She felt as though her hand would be wrenched from her arm, and the skin wrapped around her palm seemed only to split wider and wider and wider and…

Trevelyan felt the Seeker kneel down beside her. She must have… fallen to her knees. The pain.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads.” Cassandra's voice quieted, a softened counterpoint to her stony gaze. “And it is killing you.”

“You're not telling me everything,” Trevelyan said, and as the Seeker ran a familiar thumb over the scar, she could not help but close her eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Always.”

Cassandra cleared her throat as she shot to her feet and straightened her back, pulling sharpened walls back around her voice. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world. Your mark may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time.”

She helped Trevelyan to her feet before she guided her through the town, all the while remaining by her side.

“They have decided your guilt,” she said, her eyes flitting towards the townspeople. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy.”

“I don't care what they think.”

“Of course _you_ would not. But you should. There will be a trial.”

“You know that's not what I mean.” Trevelyan managed a small sardonic smile as Cassandra cut the bonds that were no longer needed beyond Haven's gates. “But your concern is touching.”

Cassandra could not help herself; “ _Ugh_.”

“It's not far from here, is it?” she said, ignoring the Seeker and pushing onwards.

Cassandra gritted her teeth as she joined the one-time warrior.

They plowed through the valley. Towards the Breach. Through the demons. She was not entirely aware when it was that Trevelyan had left her side, but she became suddenly aware of the absence. She tightened her grip on her blade as she focused on the onslaught of demons.

Trevelyan, for her part, stood her ground, bellowing hard at the demons, drawing towards her the ire of the slobbering beasts. It had been a long time since she had last grabbed a weapon. Even longer since she had held a shield. Even _longer_ since she had last killed.

Her skin itched.

By the time she pierced her sword through the last demon, she felt as though she could _peel_ her skin off. Too bad the Lady Seeker had now, in the absence of demons, turned her blade towards her.

Cassandra found the scenario terrifyingly and achingly familiar.

“Drop your weapon. _Now_.”

“Are you serious?” Trevelyan sputtered. “You're leading me through a demon-infested valley. We can't all _fly_ through on the back of the blasted Maker.”

“Don't blaspheme.”

Trevelyan planted her feet into the snow. “I won't run, Pentaghast. You need to trust me.”

“I can't.”

 

 **BUT MY FAITH SUSTAINS ME;**  
**I SHALL NOT FEAR THE LEGION SHOULD THEY SET THEMSELVES AGAINST ME.**

>> 9:34 Dragon | Val Royeaux  
>> 7 Years Before the Breach

The White Spire towered high above Val Royeaux.

Trevelyan huffed as she set her rifled through her meager duffel of belongings, still yet unpacked. An entire room all to herself. With a view to boost. And silk sheets. Porcelain on the table. Fruit. And… is that dawnstone masonry? She thought for a moment that she should take off her shoes.

Not that she had ever been a stranger to luxury. But after years in both Ostwick's monastery and Ferelden's circle…

“You'll stagnate in that dung heap,” the Bann had said. “If you are going to insist on serving as a Templar, you ought to do it _well_.”

A touching sentiment, really. A sentiment that now left her in Val Royeaux wondering if she ought to remove her boots and tiptoe around her own room. She had been in Orlais for a week now, and she had never felt more uncomfortable. Even her vigil had been more comfortable than this.

“Knight-Lieutenant Trevelyan?”

“Oh, Corporal. Yes, what is it?”

The boy looked as though he had never left the Spire since his posting; he probably never had. “I'm very sorry but a matter has arisen,” he said. “Knight-Captain de Brassard would like to you to report to the gates. There's to be an expedition.”

“An expedition?” said Trevelyan excitedly. She pushed her way out of the room and motioned for the corporal to follow. “What can you tell me?”

“An escape, ser, but that's all I know. The Knight-Captain said we're to keep this quiet.”

“Is this typical for the White Spire?”

“No, ser, escapes are highly uncommon.”

“But let me guess. If word to get out, all those nobles will get their knickers in a twist.”

The corporal cracked a small smile. His back, though, remained stiff as a board. Progress, at least. “Yes, ser,” he said.

By the time Trevelyan arrived at the gates, the expedition's horses had already been mounted and rigged. And just beyond… A woman. Dark eyes. Sharp face. Hair pulled back tight and a thick scar lining her cheek.

Armor did not weigh her down. No, she stood _regal_.

“You certainly took your time,” the woman said with an impatient frown.

The corporal cleared his throat. “May I introduce the Right Hand of the Divine, Lady Cassandra Pentaghast. Seeker Pentaghast, this is--”

“--Knight-Lieutenant Trevelyan,” interrupted the Templar, bowing. “Pleasure to meet you, Lady Pentaghast.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “You will address me as _Seeker_ Pentaghast. Or Seeker Cassandra if you must.”

“Very well,” she replied slyly, bursting with a short laugh that only deepend the Seeker's frown.

They set off, taking their horses through back roads that meandered beyond Val Royeaux. Trevelyan wordlessly insisted upon riding beside Cassandra. Their small banner of Templars took to their rear, ever weary of a Seeker traveling among their ranks.

“So is this not a matter beneath the station of Right Hand?” pondered Trevelyan out loud.

“What are you trying to say?”

“I simply did not expect to see the Right Hand of the Divine slumming it out here with the rest of us. Or a _Seeker_ for that matter.”

“The Divine would prefer an agent she trusts.”

“Ah, I see,” Trevelyan said with a raised brow. “I'll try not to feel wounded.”

“I did not mean… I only mean to say that this… is of personal concern to the Divine.”

“Relax, Pentaghast. I don't actually mind either way. That stick up your arse could use a nice dislodging, though.”

“The stick up my--?” Cassandra's frown only deepened. “You are certainly crude for a--”

“--A Trevelyan? We can't all be prissy nobles, you know.”

“ _I am not a prissy noble_.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Is that right?”

“I--” She paused, breathing again deeply through her nose. “You are attempting to provoke me.”

“That is quite an accusation.”

The Seeker studied the Templar. She had come to generally expect one of either two reactions to her presence. Most commoners stuttered, in awe of the woman who was both the Right Hand of the Divine and the dragon-slaying Hero of Orlais. Templars, though, kept their distance. Sneered, even. Mocked. Hero of Orlais or not, a Seeker is still a Seeker, nothing more than a glorified tool meant to disrupt the bonds between warriors. To punish those who serve.

Trevelyan, though, had been more open than most. Yes, the young woman spoke openly… smiled openly… And her _blatant_ disregard for authority… It was almost as though Trevelyan laughed in the face of her title. In the face of danger.

_You cannot hurt me. I do not care who you are._

The conscious distance the Knight-Lieutenant kept between their horses did not go unnoticed by Cassandra.

“You are not fond of Seekers, are you?” she broached.

“You're asking a Templar if she's fond of Seekers? Is that really the extent of your interrogation technique?”

“Yes, I suppose that was a silly question.”

Trevelyan looked up as though pondering a serious puzzle. They rode to the rhythm of hooves against cobblestone and remained mired in silence until Trevelyan finally turned to the Seeker, the solution written in the depths of her dark eyes.

“You seem all right, though,” she finally said.

“I am glad I have been able to please you,” Cassandra deadpanned.

Trevelyan laughed, her voice ringing out over the plain. “You know, you do have quite the reputation. But if you loosened up more often, I think you might actually be _liked_.”

 

**IN THE LONG HOURS OF THE NIGHT WHEN HOPE HAS ABANDONED ME,**

>> 9:41 Dragon | Haven    
>> Present Day

Trevelyan stepped out of her hut, thoroughly displeased with her rather rude awakening via stammering elf. Herald of Andraste. Damn, what a joke.

Shield strapped to her back. Sword hanging from her belt. If only the Bann could see her now.

He had always pushed her towards sisterhood, most likely at her late mother's bequest. But when she had taken to swordplay over books… She suspected that the Bann had been secretly pleased. Her brother, older by only a single year, had displayed remarkable magical talent at a young age.

He was thus left without a Templar to call a son. She remembered the day she had declared her intentions towards the Order. She remembered how he had come to visit her in the monastery. He had taught her how to hold a straight razor to her head, how to shear her hair into a neat fade.

She had been ten, and he had called her his son.

She had not spoken to him in years. Not since she had abandoned the Templars and the Chantry and all the trappings of the Andrastian faith. Her family. Her father.

She wondered if he knew that his youngest child had now become the Herald, a title that most certainly trumps even that of Knight-Commander. She wondered if he thought it to be a joke, too.

Trevelyan sighed as she wandered through Haven, trying desperately to ignore the gasps and exclamations:

“The Herald,” they cried. “Andraste has sent her to our side!”

Drowning, nearly, in her frustration, she nearly did not notice the quartermaster's desperate attempts to grab her attention.

“I went ahead and requisitioned a special philter of lyrium, ser.” Threnn began rummaging through her supplies. “You are very timely, Herald. The shipment only arrived today.”

Trevelyan frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Lyrium, ser,” Threnn said as she forced the box into the warrior's hands. “I can have a supply delivered to your quarters daily if you would like.”

“That… won't be necessary.”

“Well, I'll have the drafts here, then, for your private use, of course.” She grabbed another box, pulling the lid open in an attempt to proudly display the goods. “As you can see, we've managed to strike a deal with the Merchant's Guild. This is the finest draft you can get outside of Tevinter. A special blend. I think you'll find it more palatable than--”

“--I'm sorry, but who told you to do this?” Trevelyan's words were stiff and thick. Like cotton on her tongue.

“The advisers, ser. They informed me that you once served as a Templar.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Happy to help, ser.”

Trevelyan smiled weakly. Politely. Her knees felt stiff as she walked away, as the pads of her fingers gripped the edges of the box.

Across town, Cassandra felt her own joints shiver as she brought the weight of her steel down on the training dummy. It had been years since she had last seen Trevelyan. Nearly a decade. She hadn't thought… She hadn't thought she would see her again. She hadn't even known Trevelyan had been at the Conclave at all.

She hacked her blade into the dummy's shoulder, slicing through straw.

She could have lost them both.

Trevelyan might have died, and she never would have known…

Her sword hacked deeper into the shoulder. The edge sunk into the space the lung would have been. Down and down and down.

She sheathed her sword. The little exercise had not helped in the slightest. Perhaps she could find Leliana; it would good to pour herself into her work, after all. She did not, however, expect to run into Trevelyan. The newly annointed Herald of Andraste had been lying comatose ever since they had stabilized the Breach.

“Trevelyan,” Cassandra said shortly. “Good, you're awake. I've called for a meeting. Ensure that you are in the war room by the hour.”

Trevelyan only nodded, a tight crick in her neck. She wordlessly shoved the lyrium-box into Cassandra's chest before spinning on her heels and making her way towards… somewhere. Anywhere.

Cassandra frowned as she opened the box.

Lyrium dust.

Her legs began moving on her own accord. _Lyrium_. _Of all things…_ She wanted to shatter the box against the ground. No, she wanted to shatter it against the quartermaster's face. The muscles in her neck tugged at her temples.

The quartermaster raised a brow.

“What is the meaning of this?” seethed Cassandra.

“Seeker?”

Cassandra slammed the lyrium down on the requisitions table. “ _This_.”

“I see. Yes, I ordered a supply for the Herald. Is there a problem?”

“Dispose of it.”

“Dispose of it? All of it? But this is--”

“Either find another use for it or dispose of it altogether. But under no circumstances will you again parade it before the Herald. Have I made myself clear?”

“I…”

“I want it all gone by the end of the day.”

“Yes, Seeker. Right away.”

Threnn retreated back into her work, left utterly flabbergasted by the Seeker's sudden outrage. Cassandra cycled air through her nose as she walked away. _It is not the quartermaster's fault. There is no way she could have known…_ Mages have made their suffering known. Templars never have.

_Maker. Trevelyan._

She rushed over to the Herald's hut, throwing the door open.

It had not even occurred to her to knock.

“Trevely--” Cassandra nearly choked on her own words as she caught view of Trevelyan “What are you doing?”

The former Templar frantically stumbled across the room, flitting to and from the bed, as she grabbed items to stuff into a bag. “It's none of your business.”

“It _is_ my business if you are running away,” Cassandra said, an angry lump forming in her throat. _Unbelievable. She is unbelievable_. “You do not get to just leave--”

“--Don't say it.”

Trevelyan fumbled briefly with her canteen as she attempted to tie it to the pack. Water spilled to the ground as she smashed the contraption against the wall. She gripped the fabric of the pack, the skin pulling tight over her knuckles. She could feel sweat trickle down her neck.

“And I'm packing for the expedition I presume you'll be sending us on. I am still your prisoner, aren't I? Or did you mistake that lyrium leash for a fuzzy nug?”

Cassandra's hand twitched. Her fingers longed to wipe the sweat away. To hold her and force the ever so slight tremble away.

 _No. Not again_. _Not after…_

“I owe you an apology,” she said instead. “I did not think that the quartermaster would requisition lyrium for you.”

“You don't owe me anything, Pentaghast.” Trevelyan continued to stuff the pack full, grabbing items, even, she could not possibly need. “Don't worry your bosoms. I'll be at your little meeting.”

“How long have you been without?” the Seeker insisted as she ignored Trevelyan's tone.

“Doesn't matter,” she replied tightly, seemingly determined to say as few words as necessary.

Cassandra sighed. She should have left her alone. But she could not. Would not. Her own breath hitched as she reached for Trevelyan's hand, mapping familiar skin as she stilled the other woman.

“How is the mark?”

“It's not spreading anymore,” Trevelyan said. “So, good.”

Cassandra could not fathom a single reason why she should hold her hand. Even if there had been something wrong, there would not have been a single thing she could have done in response. She did not let go. She did not hold her tight, either.

“You left,” she blurted.

She stared down at the rough and mottled hand.

Trevelyan twitched as though she might have yanked her hand away. “I don't expect you to understand. Why do you even still care? About any of this?”

“About _you_?”

“Yes.”

Cassandra did not answer; she did not want to answer. She did not even know if she knew how. She began instead to pull her hand away, shifting her body towards the door.

She had not expected Trevelyan's hand to tighten desperately around her fingers. The former Knight-Lieutenant wordlessly beseeched her:

_Stay. Please. I need you._

So Cassandra stayed, and for as long as she stayed, they did not speak. No apologies. No admissions of guilt. No sudden declarations of longing. She only continued to trace the lines across Trevelyan's Fade-scarred palm, committing to memory every detail she had purged from her mind. Her fingers lingered over ever new detail - ever new wrinkle and callous - that had formed in her absence.

A courier knocked on the door, shattering the silence. Trevelyan barked in response.

"Seeker Pentaghast," the courier said. "We have been looking for you. Chancellor Roderick would like to see you."

Cassandra grunted, frowning as she gently pulled away from the woman. It had been nice, even for a moment, to pretend as though the past seven years had not happened. As though they were back in Val Royeaux.

“I'm sorry about Regalyan,” Trevelyan said.

Cassandra paused, nodded once, and left the little hobble behind.

 

 **I WILL SEE THE STARS AND KNOW YOUR LIGHT REMAINS**.

>> 9:10 Dragon | Nevarra City    
>> 31 Years Before the Breach

It would have been a truly romantic story if they had first met as children, a chance meeting they would both later forget. Saccharine. Strangely clairvoyant. A page out of one of those books that had become so popular within Orlesian noble circles.

And they might have. The Trevelyans, though of Free Marcher blood, held a place of honor within King Markus's court. If Cassandra's parents had not committed treason and if Evelyn Trevelyan had not been the youngest of four, they might have met.

Instead, the first Trevelyan Cassandra had ever known had been the second-born son, ward to the royal family of Nevarra. Only one of many to a childless king. A ransom of convenience. A means to bind yet another foreign family to the Pentaghast line.

He would remain there, of course, as long as the eldest Trevelyan yet lived.

The sharp-eyed boy stood by the king's side as they execution of Matthias and Tigana Pentaghast was ordered.

In truth, she had never paid the boy much mind, and though they might have once passed each other in the halls, entire decades passed before she thought of the ward again. She had not even properly registered that he had been a Trevelyan at all; she had made a trip to Cumberland at the Divine's request, and the factoid had merely meandered its way into a briefing.

But she knew that Asher Trevelyan sported a familiar mop of sandy hair and dirt-colored eyes. Though impossible, she once imagined that Evelyn had taken Asher's place.

Because they might have known each other for that much longer.

Because they were both the youngest of their families, and children of those not first-born hardly took a precedence over politicking. They might have even become betrothed, and how strange and bizarre and captivating might that have been?

Instead, as he stood from his throne, King Markus looked down pityingly on the children of his former steward. He left the court, and Asher Trevelyan, ever the dutiful ward, followed close behind.

That night, Uncle Vestalus led the children away from the palace, consigning them to a life of living among moaning corpses and phials of embalming fluid. The carriage jumped as it passed over rocks, and Cassandra clenched her eyes shut.

Anthony grabbed her hand. “Everything's going to be fine, Cass. You'll see.”


	2. Lights in the Shadow

**I HAVE HEARD THE SOUND:**

>> 9:41 Dragon | The Hinterlands   
>> Present Day

They remained civil, at least.

And during battles, they did not lose their edge. It did not take long for the pair to fall into easy step with one another. Trevelyan had changed, of course. She no longer called forth the lyrium, and she no longer tilted her shield down in that customary way that so effectively denied magicks. She now drew a line in the sand and became an unyielding bastion of fury, pulling every strike towards her and enduring every bone shattering blow.

They no longer fought like twin fangs, and they no longer cut through the air in unison.

But they fell into that easy step regardless, into that dance.

Cassandra would shift, and Trevelyan would put her shield to her back. Trevelyan would thrust her blade forward, and Cassandra would add hers to the storm.

But adrenaline fades, and once the battle-haze had faded, the tension spread tight over the party.

Trevelyan tightened her grip on the reins. She could not will the mount to the tavern faster.

“There's something between the two of you,” Varric said.

“No, there isn't.”

“I have eyes. There's something between you and the Seeker.” His face contorted as though he had just uncovered the most scandalous of secrets. “You slept with her.”

“Are you surprised that she fell into bed with a woman?”

“No, I'm surprised she fell into bed with another human being. That would require _feelings_.”

Trevelyan smiled grimly. “It was a long time ago.”

“Well, don't get all broody on me. Let's pick up the pace; you look like you need ale.”

“Not if it's that swill you insist on ordering. For everyone.”

Reluctantly, Varric did allow the Herald to pick out their fare. Secretly, though, he was glad. It hadn't been as though he had  _always chosen_ to partake in rat-flavored ale. It was simply all the Hanged Man could offer, and now… Well, appearances are appearances.

Still, a clean glass of booze would not be altogether unwelcome.

The barmaid (Trevelyan could not remember her name, though she felt she could recall her generously ample bosoms) fell into Trevelyan's lap as she delivered their drinks.

“I haven't seen you in a while, dear,” the barmaid said. “How long has it been?”

“I really don't have the slightest clue, now--”

“--But we had so much _fun_ last time. There was an elf. And _toys_.”

Cassandra had seated herself at a separate table, sequestering herself away into a damp lonely corner. But, she was not blind. _Nor_ was she deaf. The tin mug nearly crushed in Cassandra's hands.

Is this, then, where Trevelyan had gone when she had left Val Royeux? When she had escaped the Circle and the Chantry and the Order? She had sacrificed everything (even _her_ ) for this? She watched as the barmaid slung her arms around Trevelyan's neck.

It was…

Too much.

Trevelyan grimaced as she removed the barmaid's arms from around her shoulder, and her ass from the seat of her legs. “Why don't you go and get us some drinks?”

A momentary respite, at least.

A momentary respite had Varric not spied an approaching figure of a more… sharp variety.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, mapping out his potential escape routes.

Trevelyan had been chugging the remainder of her liquor when the Seeker slammed her fist against the table, causing, very nearly, the drinks to spill across the already sodden oak surface. She coughed as a drop of alcohol slipped down into her windpipe.

“You are acting like a child,” Cassandra said, seething. “You cannot behave like a fool.”

Trevelyan narrowed her eyes. “She is only getting our drinks. But that doesn't matter; I am not yours to order about.”

She should have stepped away. But anger boiled sudden and hard in her gut, coiling before springing up through her throat and bursting past her teeth.

“Your behavior is unbecoming of the Herald. _Of a Templar_.”

Silence settled over the table. Varric, who out of discomfort had been attempting to chat up a mostly silent Blackwall, clamped his lips shut. Everyone stared.

Cassandra slowly widened her eyes as her own words reached her ears. She hadn't meant to…

It didn't matter; Trevelyan stood, the feet of her chair screeching against the floorboards. “I am no Templar.”

“Evelyn…”

But she did not stay to hear what Cassandra had to say. She slammed a handful of coppers down onto the table before storming off. Varric, on the other hand, carefully sipped his ale, eyes examining the insides of his mug as though he hadn't just been left with the Seeker's ire. He wondered how Blackwall would fare as a shield. He shifted, ever so slightly, behind the bulk of the man.

Cassandra ignored the dwarf. Even when attempting to be imperceptible, he remained infuriating.

She followed Trevelyan to the stairwell.

“Evelyn,” she said again, tasting the name on her tongue.

“No,” Trevelyan spat, her voice strained. “You don't get to call me that anymore. When will you understand? _You_ and the _Chantry_ both. The same.”

“You don't truly mean that.”

She stared into Cassandra's eyes, deliberate and sharp; “I am not the woman you fell in love with, Seeker.”

“No,” she said bitterly. “I suppose you are not.”

 

**A SONG IN STILLNESS, THE ECHO OF YOUR VOICE, CALLING CREATION TO WAKE FROM ITS SLUMBER.**

>> 9:34 Dragon | The Imperial Highway   
>> 7 Years Before the Breach

Trevelyan poured measured portions of lyrium dust out into the spoon. She heated the spoon, and the lyrium bubbled. Her throat became parched, and she could hear the liquid _sing._ Not enough. Water doesn't work. Not blue enough. It should all be more… blue…

“Are you all right?”

Cassandra's voice broke the song. She had not noticed that the Seeker had entered their tent.

“Yes, I… I'm just thirsty.” Trevelyan grimaced as she added the distilling agent to the concoction. “You don't have to be here for this. It's not exactly glamorous.”

Cassandra did not know what to do as she watched the Templar assemble the syringe. True, the rank and file received bottled rations, measured and carefully controlled. Weaker. Less volatile. The officers, though, received intricate wooden cases, complete with an ever-watchful figure of Andraste. Lyrium dust. Special concentrated blends. Liquefied. Injected.

Trevelyan's skin glowed blue beneath the needle.

As a Seeker, she had often approved ration requests herself. She had appropriated. Divided. But as she watched Trevelyan's sharp eyes cloud over, she did not know what to do.

“Sorry about that,” Trevelyan said. She shoved the philter away. “Can't exactly smite demons without a little Fade rock.”

Cassandra frowned. “Does it help?”

“Well, it could use a chaser. Leaves you with a bit of a dry mouth.”

Cassandra had never approved of heavy lyrium use, but she had always tolerated its use. _We have few tools,_ her superiors had always said. _We must be prepared to utilize them all._ But to be faced with it now, in the flesh, and to witness firsthand the way Trevelyan lightheartedly shouldered the burden of clouded eyes and a burned mind… She did not know exactly what she might have said, but her mouth quickly snapped open to rebuke the young woman.

She might have done so had Knight-Corporals Carroll and Ser not entered the officers' tent, interrupting the conversation. “We've found the apostates, ser. We've tracked a blood trail to a nearby cave.”

“We'll mount an attack by nightfall.” Trevelyan nodded as she poured over the map. “The Seeker and I will lead the charge. I will need your gleve to hang back as insurance. Ser will take his behind us. A clean sweep.”

“I'll inform the men,” Ser said in short gruff tones.

“We must exercise caution,” Cassandra added, as she burned beneath Carroll's distrustful gaze. “They are all to be taken alive.”

Carroll's arms fell from behind his back. “With all due respect, Seeker, they are apostates. I will not risk our men unnecessarily!”

“These are the Divine's orders.”

“By the Maker's shiny gold cutlery,” Carroll exclaimed. He turned to beseech his officer; “Trevelyan! You cannot allow this. We can't be expected to operate with our hands tied.”

“You have your orders,” Trevelyan said shortly.

“This Seeker isn't telling us everything.”

"That is not our decision to make." Her next words became tinged with unmistakable pride. "They did not separate our banner when we arrived, and they very well could have. And this mission... They must have asked for us specifically. They know our capabilities and our manner. We follow our orders, as always have."

"But, ser, we also--."

“--Carroll. This isn't Ferelden.”

The young man grimaced as he snapped to attention, accepting the silent words written across Trevelyan's eyes. “I understand.”

Cassandra watched him leave. _The nerve_. _These are Most Holy's orders. This is far more important than petty squabbles. We cannot allow…_ She turned to Trevelyan.

“Do you allow all your men to be so insubordinate?”

“Yes, well, where we you during the Blight?” Trevelyan said, snapping. Her gaze, though, softened when she caught sight of the Seeker. “I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me.”

“You have a history with these men.”

“Our banner has remained mostly together since the Blight. It is uncommon, but Ferelden has received few reinforcements in the past few years." She shrugged. "When the Bann insisted that I take this transfer; I insisted on choosing my own men.”

“The Bann?”

“My father.”

Cassandra started at this. She did not remember her own father; she had been too young when he had died, too young to truly even mourn. She could not tell whether or not Trevelyan regarded the… Bann… favorably. It seemed awfully impersonal. Even Vestalus, ever distant, had always been Uncle.

And Trevelyan herself had been anything but impersonal. That much was clear in the way she regarded the men of her banner.

“The Seekers are different,” she said slowly. “We train together, but after the vigil, we go our separate ways. We become squires to chosen masters.”

Trevelyan's face lit with a smile. “Like dashing chevaliers, then?”

“Yes. I suppose so,” Cassandra said, with a chortle.

“Do _you_ have a squire?”

“A young man. His name is Daniel. We've trained together for quite a few years now. It has been… enlightening to see how he has grown. I feel as though I now understand how Byron must have felt. Maker, I was not an easy apprentice…” Cassandra's voice trailed off; Trevelyan had been staring. “What?”

“When you become impassioned, you have this glint in your eyes.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. And you smile, too. Like that.”

“Bullshit.”

Cassandra turned away in a poor attempt to hide the expression.

“Maker, forgive me for being forward,” the younger woman said. “But I find it ridiculous that you don't seem to see how beautiful you are. You are far too shy.”

A gasp. “ _Lieutenant_.”

“ _Pentaghast_ ,” she responded, the light tease reaching her eyes.

Cassandra felt her cheeks flush. She had never been fond of her surname, but now… As Trevelyan's lips molded around each letter... She could not help but wonder what it might be like to run her fingers through Trevelyan's short straw-colored hair. Or to kiss her. To tangle with her. To spar.

“Fraternization is no joke,” she coughed, attempting to interrupt her thoughts.

“Would you like to reprimand me, then?”

Trevelyan was not striking. _Not at all_. She was the _furthest_ thing from striking. Not her cheeks, not her muscled arms, not the way she pushed her hair back… Certainly not her lips…

Cassandra grumbled and consigned herself to sulking.

She was glad for the distraction of a raid.

Despite Carroll's reservations, the raid had gone smoothly. Trevelyan's banner moved like a well-oiled machine. By the way they operated, sweeping and weaving through the cave, it was beyond clear that they had clashed with blood mages before.

It did not hurt to have a Seeker by their side either.

They had even managed to take down the mages as per her request, incurring few casualties more serious than broken bones.

Regalyan D'Marcall smiled from the ground as he regarded the fallen assailants. “Cassandra, I've never been more glad to see your face. Those blood-mage brutes slaughtered our Templar escort.”

“Galyan, it has been too long.”

“My fault, I know. But I bear gifts.” He gestured to the party of shackled mages and Tranquil around him. “I realize bringing them in from the College would be a risk, but I think you'll agree that Most Holy would like to hear what they have to say. Straight from the horse's mouth. They've… continued Pharamond's work. Not that it would have mattered in a few hours. Good that you came to our rescue. I knew you would.”

The Knight-Lieutenant frowned at the familiarity with which both Cassandra and Regalyan spoke. But she steeled herself quickly, ordering her men through properly securing the cave. It did not escape her that the Chantry had not been altogether truthful regarding the mission.  _Blood mages_ with  _hostages_. These were no escapees, and this Regalyan... 

Still, duty comes first, after all, and the sooner they returned to Val Royeux, the better.

She trusted that both the Divine and the Seeker had good reason to keep up the deception.

Even as they left the cave, even through the long journey, it was as though Trevelyan and her men had become entirely different people. Where before they had been boisterous and juvenile (a few had even partaken in drink almost in defiance of the Seeker), they now became stoic and rigid. Like gargoyles. It was a week's journey back to Val Royeaux, but they did not eat. They did not drink. At times, it was almost as though they did not sleep.

Only occasionally would they take shifts to disappear into tents, only to emerge with clouded eyes and renewed vigor.

Treveylan did not even sit. She did not remove her boots, nor did she remove a single piece of her full battle-armor. The mages, Regalyan included, chafed beneath her gaze.

At times, Regalyan would approach the Knight-Lieutenant, if only to deliver requested reports on the status of all mages in their company. On the third night, though, Cassandra had found the pair engaged in deep conversation.

“This charade is entirely unnecessary,” he said. “Half our party expects that you will slaughter us should we breathe the wrong way.”

“My men will do no such thing.”

“I am only attempting to ensure that you understand the situation. We are not apostates.”

“And my men are no murderers.” Trevelyan appeared as though she had been carved from marble. “Have any laid a single hand on any of you?”

“No.”

“Have any made threats that they might?”

“No,” Galyan said, gritting his teeth in an uncharacteristic show of frustration. “They do not even speak.”

“Then they are doing their jobs.”

Galyan regarded the stoic woman. This Templar was nothing like the fiery Evangeline. Nor was she anything like the majority of Val Royeux's Templars who, though sometimes overzealous in their ardor for untasted combat, could at least be kind. They did not hide behind helms and shields.

“I am sorry for you, Knight-Lieutenant. And I apologize if you have come across mages whose actions have disparaged my kind as a whole. You must have been truly wronged for you to despise us so.”

“I neither love nor hate mages,” Trevelyan said, raising a brow, and her voice indeed did not carry undertones of malice.

Galyan scoffed. “By your manner, I find that hard to believe.”

“A wall does not choose sides,” Trevelyan responded. “It merely exists.”

“A wall also does not succumb to addiction.”

For the first time, Trevelyan's stony facade cracked. But only for a moment. It did not take long for her face to set back into its earlier expression. Frankly, Cassandra half-expected Trevelyan to explode with the truth. Had she not known Regalyan, had she been in Trevelyan's boots, she might have done so herself.

Trevelyan only walked away, attending to a matter regarding the remaining rations of food to be appropriated among their charges. She fell into step with the shift's corporal of the guard as she systematically inspected the stores. Ser, for his part, wore the stony expression as well, but if all were to be honest, his demeanor was not all too different than his usual fare.

Regalyan wearily watched the Knight-Lieutenant.

“Be careful with that one, Cassandra,” he said.

“Your view of her may be limited. I think she… endures more than you know.”

“But there are stories.”

“I'm a Seeker, Galyan. I am well aware.”

“You also know, then, that some stories never reach Chantry ears. Seeker or not.” Galyan actually appeared… uncomfortable. “The stories from Ferelden's Circle Tower… They say their Templars are like lyrium-shielded monsters.”

“That is absurd. I do not believe that Trevelyan would--”

“--Is it truly so absurd?” Galyan said. “Look at them. I have not seen a single one even _sneeze_. We are beyond the Circle here. We are traveling, and I understand the need for extra precautions. What worries me is that an entire banner of Ferelden Templars has been permanently stationed in the Spire. I have heard that they are abominations in their own right, more lyrium than human, and as I observe them now...”

“Do you doubt my ability to carry out my duties?”

“I am only worried that you may be… blinded by her.”

“That is not fair.”

Galyan ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his shoulders. “I know that it has been a long time since we… That does not mean I do not care for you. I can see how you look at her.”

“I have known her for scarcely more than a week.”

“It takes far less time for infatuation to take root; I should know.” He sighed before turning to attend to the party's younger mages. “Just keep in mind that Ferelden's Templars are feared for good reason.”

She could not ignore the truth behind Galyan's warning. Though she had been made Right Hand, she had not abandoned her duties as Seeker, and she had observed the Spire's new transplants even before the expedition. She hadn't thought much of if but… They did not take their meals in the hall with the others, and as long as they remained within the walls of the Spire, not a single one drank even water beyond their barracks.

And there was the matter of the lyrium. She herself, along with Knight-Commander Eron and Knight-Captain de Brassard, had signed off on the requisition order; the Ferelden Templars had required more than the rest.

The infatuation, though… She was not a child. Trevelyan had not blinded her.

She was merely… drawn to her.

No, she most certainly could not deny that she was drawn to Trevelyan. She caught glimpse of the warrior take a brief and uncommon reprieve in their shared tent, and Cassandra allowed her feet to lead.

“Perception is reality,” Trevelyan quietly explained, peering down at the closed container of lyrium. “If they are to trust that we are guardians, they must believe that we are more than men. You understand, don't you?”

“They are frightened of you.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “My own brother was taken away to Ostwick's Circle. I mean it when I say I do not hate mages.”

“I believe that you are not a hateful person.”

Trevelyan, though, did not seem to hear her attempts at comfort; “I don't hate them. Of course, not. But an entire tower of abominations? To be trapped and surrounded… It is suffocating.” Her fingers tapped against the container's lid in a steady rhythm. “The _things_ they did to us… I…”

“Blood mages,” Cassandra said, interrupting the turmoil in Trevelyan's eyes. “For me it is blood mages.”

She did not need to say more. There was no need to allow bad memories the comfort of words, the taste of air. It was merely understood: an unspoken language between warriors, unknowable without the cipher of blood and steel.

“Thank you,” Trevelyan finally whispered.

“Despite this mask you insist on wearing,” Cassandra said, “you are not immortal. You should at least nap.”

But Trevelyan only gave a small, yet grateful, smile in response; “We all endure our duty.”

 

**HOW CAN WE KNOW YOU?**

>> 9:29 Dragon | Ostwick    
>> 12 Years Before the Breach

She walked through the makeshift Chantry alongside her comrades-to-be. She had endured her vigil. She had passed the Crucible. Many had not succeeded, falling out at some point or the other. But these few... They had made it when others had not. They had tread forth when others could not. They had been  _chosen_ , not for their birth or their wealth or their Maker-given boons, but for their strength.

They were the few. They had  _earned_ this.

So she ignored how her stomach growled.

She ignored the itch of dry mud clinging to her face.

Her eyelids shivered, weighed down by months of little to no sleep, and she forced her eyelids open through sheer force of will.

But she had made it. She had succeeded. And though her throat ached with the recitation of her vows, each word rung clearly through the halls, a chorus. Beautiful.

Beside her, yet another recruit shuddered with lyrium. Joy. Cheers. All those who attended rejoiced.  _You are one of us, now. We will bleed for you, and you will bleed for us._

“You are reborn,” the Knight-Captain said, reaching Trevelyan. “From this day forth, the Order is your life. It is your blood. Stand, Ser Evelyn Trevelyn, and know that your brothers and sisters will always stand by your side.”

The handlers held her still as the Knight-Captain pressed the mass of lyrium to her chest, and... 

 _It sang_ , _setting her body aflame with the Maker's embrace._

 

**IN THE TURNING OF THE SEASONS, IN LIFE AND DEATH,**

>> 9:34 Dragon | Val Royeaux   
>> 7 Years Before the Breach

Cassandra cased the balcony before taking her place to the right of Divine Justinia. She huffed as she looked down on the festivities, as she watched the knights and chevaliers swing their blunted swords in preparation for the coming bout. Leliana joined her, dressed plainly as a sister, as though she were nothing more than yet another of Most Holy's attendants.

“I still don't see why we must attend these events,” Cassandra said.

“It's a tourney, Cassandra.” Leliana folded her hands elegantly over her lap. “Smile. Have fun.”

“This pretend fighting. It is absurd.”

“I thought you would enjoy these bouts. It _is_ romantic, after all.”

“Romantic?”

“Look at those warriors, sparring to win the favors of lords and ladies. And only the most dashing will be sent to the Grand Tourney next season.”

She had to admit; there were a few impressive displays of skill. A chevalier here. A knight there. But most sported overly decorative armor. Hardly practical. She would bet a handful of silvers that they would not prevail. Squires scrambled through the pit as they rushed weapons to their knights.

Knight-Corporal Carroll stumbled, and the sword nearly fell from his arms.

“You didn't have to do this,” Trevelyan said.

“If you're going to insist on fighting in this melee, you ought to do this properly.” He slapped the lieutenant's hands away as he tightened her breastplate's straps. “No, no, no. I've one job, and one job only, and by Andraste's dimples, I will do it.”

“Don't be smart. I can have you back to guarding docks, you know.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“You shouldn't test me.” Trevelyan tested the balance of her sword. “She's up there, right? Don't look.”

Carroll rolled his eyes. “Yes, she's there. Right beside the Divine. This is a bad idea.”

“You think she'll get mad?”

“She's a _Seeker_ , ser.”

Trevelyan ignored her colleague's outburst as she pulled on her helm. “She isn't looking, is she?”

“How am I supposed to know if you won't let me turn around to see?”

Cassandra, though, had not yet looked their way even once. She continued to case the balcony, and the pit, for threats. She could at least make herself moderately useful.

Leliana smiled knowingly. “Relax, Cassandra. I have already covered everything. I wouldn't want you to miss all the fun.”

“You know something, don't you?” Cassandra said, narrowing her eyes.

The horn echoed across the pit.

“ _Oh_ ,” Leliana gushed. “Hush now. The melee is starting.”

The first ten fighters fell quickly, almost immediately. Most had been, as Cassandra had originally expected, those who had chosen form over function. Molded ceramic armor tipped with gold paint. Lavishly carved swords. Family shields that were best suited for display cases. But there had been a few upsets as well – particularly a handsome chevalier, a favorite among lords and ladies alike.

The dragon-crested tempest went mostly unknown; her swordsmanship, while passionate, was practical and without flair. She was most certainly not to Orlesian tastes.

Leliana, though, quickly caught notice of the furious tempest. “You have been spending a great deal of time at the Spire lately,” she said, pulling  the Seeker's attention.

“I have had business with the Tranquil,” Cassandra retorted, grunting in response. She did not want to admit that she found the bout to actually be moderately entertaining. “You know this.”

“I think you harbor ulterior motives.”

“That is ridiculous. Regalyan and I--”

“--I do not think she means Regalyan,” the Divine interrupted, and she shared a knowing smile with her Left Hand.

“Then who…”

Yet another chevalier hit the dirt, leaving three left in the pit. The last chevalier, clearly the remaining favorite, circled his opponents. His feet danced as he approached the dragon-crested knight, sweeping low at her feet with his blade.

A feint.

He gracefully smashed the butt of his hilt against her helm, flinging the piece of armor across the arena.

Cassandra nearly jumped to her feet; “ _Trevelyan_ ,” she breathed.

The golden fury turned. _Winked_. Cassandra felt a blush touch her cheeks and creep up from her neck.

“ _Pay attention_ ,” she murmured. “His left ankle is bad.”

Trevelyan parried the incoming blows with ease, and she blinked as sweat began to creep into her eyes. She could feel the Seeker's gaze on her…

The clang of metal. The burn in her muscles. Cassandra's eyes…

The lyrium-song became silent in her veins.

Cassandra gripped the armrests of her seat tight. Now only Trevelyan and the chevalier remained. She watched, wide-eyed, as the Templar tossed her shield to the ground, much to the delight of the crowd.

Leliana shook her head as she chuckled. “You are literally at the edge of your seat.”

“ _Quiet_.” Cassandra felt a grunt slide up her throat. “Why is she even here? What is the meaning of this?”

A gambit of a thrust. Trevelyan burst forward, slamming the flat side of her sword against his hand. Their blades clattered against the dirt. She smiled wide as she faced down the chevalier. No weapons. Out of his element.

Her fist caught the chevalier square in the jaw with a fist.

" _How Ferelden,_ " Cassandra thought she heard an Orlesian lady remark (her voice tinged with both disgust and arousal).

The crowd cheered with the conclusion of the melee. Even if not glamorous, it had been  _interesting_.

Trevelyan felt her lungs burn. But she had became singular in her focus, and she turned, finally, to face the Divine's balcony, her sharp eyes trained on the Seeker. Her eyes did not leave her as she gave a short bow. Cassandra sputtered at the sight.

The blush crept higher.

“ _Do something_ ,” Leliana hissed.

“What, I--”

Leliana snatched Cassandra's glove from her hand. She flashed a brief smile before tossing it down into Trevelyan's hand, inciting the spectators into a hurrah. Trevelyan may not have been the favored fighter, but a good story? Subtle enough to spark rumor and imagination? The crowd cheered at the display.

The Seeker, for her part, continued to sputter as she watched the Templar cheekily tuck the token into her belt.

“You are too easy, Cassandra,” Leliana said as she leaned back, beyond pleased with herself. “You do like your pretty faces.”

She slinked into her seat. “This is mortifying.”

“Don't worry,” Most Holy said; she had not missed the small smile that had touched her Right Hand's face, the smile she had so quickly attempted to hide. “I think she likes you, too.”

 

**IN THE EMPTY SPACE WHERE OUR HEARTS HUNGER FOR A FORGOTTEN FACE?**

>> 9:41 Dragon | Haven    
>> Present Day

The road home from Suledin Keep had been beyond tense.

She had chosen to bring the Templars to heel, and Cassandra had snorted as if to say “ _Of course, you would do such a thing_.”

“How could you?” Cassandra had said aloud. “After everything you yourself endured?”

Trevelyan nearly spat out her response; “I did it _precisely_ because of what I endured. You ask, but you are perfectly aware.”

No more was said, and the rest of the journey remained mired in silence, and upon reaching Haven's gates, they could not have parted faster.

Trevelyan wrung her fingers as she thought back to the exchange. This could not go on for much longer. The Inquisition could not… _She_ could not endure this for much longer. She suspected that the Seeker had not fared much better.

But she had never once expected to find her in such a _state_.

Cassandra sat slumped in the corner of her quarters. She grunted as she poured alcohol down her throat.

“Ah, here comes the hero of our age,” Cassandra slurred as she gestured clumsily towards the Herald. Frustration built in her chest. Frustration with Trevelyan. Frustration with _herself_. “Mighty tamer of the Order of Templars. Once lowly prisoner. Now the fabled Herald of Andraste. A toast to you, my lady.”

“Sitting in a dark corner. Drinking.”

“ _Yes._ What of it?”

“It's pathetic. Beneath you.”

“We're all changing, aren't we? Everything's changing.”

“This isn't like you, Cassandra. Why--”

“--You.” The Seeker stumbled to her feet. _I cannot_ _stop thinking about_ her. _The little tavern shit._ “I've waited years for you to return to me, and you are finally here. But for what? You abandoned your… your _duty._ For few cheap _whores_.” She thrust a finger into the Herald's chest, her words melting together. “Why come back? What do you want for me?”

Trevelyan clenched her teeth, tightening the skin around her jaw. “I didn't choose any of this! _You_ are the one who raised me up. _You_ wanted me to stay.”

“Yes. I remember,” she hissed.

A deep breath. _Stop. She's drunk on cheap liquor._

The Seeker stumbled, struggling to remain upright. Alcohol had spilled down her front. Her choppy hair had become disheveled. Angry cheeks. Dry, red eyes. _Is this what it had been like after I left?_ _Well, what did you expect?_

She winced as Cassandra pulled the bottle back to her lips. “You hate me, don't you?”

“Of course, I hate you.”

She felt as though she had been struck in the gut. Even after everything they had said and done… Even if there had never existed any way to go back to the way they had once been… Even if she could no longer love her… _Of course, she hates you._ _How could she not?_

Trevelyan turned to leave. “I'll fetch Leliana. She can… help you.”

“ _No._ Don't you dare.” Cassandra smashed the bottle against the wall before grabbing her by the shoulder. “I will not allow you to walk away from me. Not again.”

Trevelyan's breath hitched in her throat as Cassandra pushed her against the wall. The Seeker's fingers gripped hard into her sides. A deep breath. And then another.

She pressed her lips against the younger woman.

“But you hate me,” Trevelyan groaned.

“Yes, but I have also missed you,” the Seeker growled. Her lips had moved down to her neck, and the Herald could feel the ghost of a tear touch her skin, too. “And now I hate _myself_ for it.”

Trevelyan gasped with a short sob.

Cassandra tugged at her, clumsily undoing the front of her breeches, pushing her harder against the wall as she slid her hand down between her legs. Searching. Searching desperately for the dashing woman she had once loved.

She brushed by soft wisps of hair.

“Cassandra, I… _Maker_.”

“You still feel the same.” A finger slipped between her wet folds. “It is as I remembered.”

Another small gasp, _desperate and needy_ , escaped Trevelyan's throat, and she cursed herself as her hips began instinctively to grind and roll against the Seeker's hand, searching and yearning and… She could smell the liquor on Cassandra's breath. She could feel the clumsy and uncoordinated thrusts and yet… She grasped at the Seeker. Wanted her to keep going. Opened her legs wider. Couldn't help herself because…

This was Cassandra. And the lyrium had tried so hard to make her forget. What she looked like. What it felt like to have her _inside_.

“How do I compare to your barmaids?” the Seeker slurred, sinking her teeth into skin. “They're more experienced, are they not?”

Her words splashed over her like a bucket of cold water. Trevelyan grabbed her arm, and with eyes clamped shut and labored breaths, she stilled the ministrations.

“Cassandra, no,” she said, gently pulling Cassandra's hand from between her legs. Her words, though, had become rough. Strained. “Not like this. You're not yourself.”

Labored breaths. Burning with the tension of everything that had been left unsaid, past hurts and pains. Whispers of lyrium and barmaids. Duty and betrayal. They leaned into one another. Trevelyan's legs still shook with arousal. The alcohol sloshing through Cassandra's empty stomach lurched, extinguishing the hateful flashfire.

Trevelyan bore Cassandra's weight as she led her to the bed, gently laying her down.

She ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair. “They don't hold a candle to you. I have _never_ loved anyone else.”

“You promised,” Cassandra said, her eyes beginning to flutter shut. “And yet… You broke your promise regardless.”

Trevelyan tilted her head down, and she pulled the Seeker's hand toward her, toward the hem of her shirt. She gently wiped her fingers clean.

“Sometimes I wish I had never met you,” Cassandra continued, flailing as she ripped away from the disgraced Templar. “You broke my heart.”

“And you broke mine.”


	3. Spell Shatter

**YOU HAVE WALKED BESIDE ME**

>> 9:41 Dragon | Haven  
>> Present Day

Cassandra blinked. Fuzzy… Everything… Her head throbbed and her stomach lurched and the dim light beat harshly against her eyes. Last night. She had grabbed a bottle of what must have been Butterbile. Or Chasind Sack Mead. She couldn't tell which, and the stench of day old alcohol twisted her stomach regardless.

She had been upset… with Trevelyan. The barmaid and the Templars and…

_Maker, no._

She would have shot up in bed, but even the thought of such an action caused the room to spin around her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement:

“There's a bucket beside you if you need to hurl,” Trevelyan said quietly from the other side of the room.

She flipped a page. One of Cassandra's books. She must have borrowed it sometime last night. Trevelyan flipped another page. And another. As though she were actually reading.

Cassandra reached out with thick and clunky words. “I… Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

She remembered. Maker, she remembered, and even despite the stench, she wished she had only consumed more of that blighted poison – anything to make her forget she had done such a thing. She could still remember how Trevelyan had felt beneath her fingers, _around her fingers_ , and the sensation of the Herald trembling against her had become burned into her mind.

The way Trevelyan had gasped. The way her hips had succumbed, helplessly bearing her weight down on Cassandra's fingers. The way Trevelyan had silently sobbed into her shoulder, a tight bundle of regret and betrayal and years of pent-up desire.

And now…

She would not even look at her.

“I don't actually hate you,” Cassandra tried.

Trevelyan smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching ever so slightly. “I wish I could believe that.”

They both grasped silently for words that refused to come easily, and it became hard to believe that there ever was a time when they had quickly fallen into long, winding conversation. Lying in bed. Playing with the hem of the other's shirt. Lazy. Languid. Sequestered from the trappings of duty.

They had been young, and they had burned with desire.

“It doesn't matter,” Trevelyan finally said. “Whatever we… used to be. We need to learn how to be around each other.”

Cassandra watched as Trevelyan flipped yet another page. She could see the cold sweat covering her skin. She wished she could peer into her eyes. Clear eyes. Sharp eyes.

“You're right. I'm sorry.” She frowned, attempting to send away the throbbing her temples with short choppy breaths. “I should have known better. This cannot be easy for you with--”

“--Don't do that,” Trevelyan said, rubbing hard at her eyes. “The lyrium… It doesn't mean I need to be coddled.”

Panic settled heavy in the pit of Cassandra's stomach.

“After I… You did not…”

Trevelyan looked up towards the ceiling with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I'm fine, Pentaghast. I've been here the whole night. Promise.”

Cassandra sat up slowly and forced herself not to think about the vomit licking up the sides of her stomach. Trevelyan's eyes were at least unclouded, but… as Trevelayn turned each page, her fingers shook, and she could hear the way the paper trembled.

“Do you have anyone who… helps you?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“But someone should--”

“--I will not run, Cassandra. Not from this.” Trevelyan snapped the book shut before placing it to the side, leaning back further into her chair. “Can you trust me?”

Cassandra looked down at her hands, and she twisted her fingers together. She had long thought the scars to be scabbed over. But now, they were raw. She wondered if Trevelyan had only spared her feelings due to the events of the night prior, if Trevelyan had withheld the fact that someone had indeed been helping her. Holding her through the nights, through the cold sweats and the delirium.

Embracing her in _her_ stead.

“I thought I could be your protector,” she said.

Trevelyan laughed bitterly. “You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right? As though either of us needs _protecting_.”

“Yes, well. I am a romantic, remember?”

“I remember,” the Herald whispered, and Cassandra watched as a brief, genuine smile touched Trevelyan's lips. A fleeting smile.

“Even when I realized that you would not return,” she continued, unconsciously committing the smile to her memory, “I used to imagine that I could somehow rescue you. Don't laugh.”

She looked up, ignoring the way her head throbbed with the harsh light. She searched for Trevelyan's sharp eyes.

“I still do not know if I can trust you,” she said, “but if you will have me, I will remain as the shield by your side.”

Trevelyan nodded slowly and moved to leave the room. “The Templars are still en route from Suledin. If all goes well, we will attempt to close the Breach by the end of the week. And I believe Madame de Fer may have a potion for your stomach. I can have it sent for.”

The door closed behind Trevelyan, and Cassandra could not help but notice that the woman had not once been able to meet her gaze.

 

**DOWN THE PATHS WHERE A THOUSAND ARROWS SOUGHT MY FLESH.**

>> 9:34 Dragon | Val Royeaux  
>> 7 Years Before the Breach

Cassandra had spent the entire weekend debating the matter with Leliana, attempting desperately to find any reason at all not to engage with Evelyn Trevelyan.

She is a Templar.

She is too young, eight years my junior.

It cannot be.

“At least go see her,” Leliana had insisted, and she had nearly lunged to clamp the spymaster's mouth shut at the mention of _young stamina,_ Cassandra found that she could not deny her.

She could not deny herself. Trevelyan was dashing. Refreshingly different than those Orlesian fools. An air of easiness, though thicker waters did run beneath. Sharp eyes. Strong, muscled arms. _Maker, those arms._

No, she could not deny herself.

The Knight-Lieutenant, in the comfort of her own quarters, had been stripped of her full regalia. She wore only a thin cotton undershirt and a pair of charcoal trousers. Standard-issue fare.

“My patron has finally arrived,” Trevelyan said, gesturing wildly.

“ _Ugh_. Don't be ridiculous.” Cassandra rolled her eyes. “It is not as though you could actually attend the Grand Tourney.”

“The Chantry _has_ been known to allow exceptional Templars leave to compete. But you're right. I wouldn't abandon my duties.” The knight left her with a smile. “Nor you.”

Cassandra grunted as she chose over to gloss over Trevelyan' s offhand comment. “Why enter the melee?”

“I thought you could use a bit of romance in your life.”

“That is foolish. You must be joking.”

“Not at all. I wouldn't even dream of making light of your affliction; you are far too lovely.”

“I am not _lovely_.”

“I beg to differ,” Cassandra said. She looked away, attempting to slow her breathing and her pulse as though Trevelyan could hear both from across the room. “You cannot keep flirting with me. You must know that nothing can come of it.”

“And why is that?”

“You know why. We cannot… fraternize.”

“So you _are_ attracted to me.”

“No! That is not what I meant.”

Trevelyan smiled cheekily.“You don't like me, then?”

“Wait! What? I do… I mean… Shit.” She flushed with embarrassment. _Again_. _Always with the blushing._ “Why do you insist on doing this to me?”

“Relax, Pentaghast,” Trevelyan said with yet another wry smile. “Loosen up.”

Cassandra emitted a disgusted noise, and she shook her head and huffed and rolled her eyes, and she only seemed to delight Trevelyan further in the process. She stilled, though, when her eyes fell upon an angry red wound that peeked out from the collar of Trevelyan's shirt.

Truthfully, she did not notice that she had stepped so close until it was already too late:

“Your shoulder,” she breathed, and she ran a finger over the rough wound.

Trevelyan swallowed her shiver. “Hm?”

“That chevalier must have nicked you.”

“Oh, yes. I think that happened early on. Must have caught me between the plates.”

“It would not have happened if you had paid more attention,” the Seeker scolded. “You did not even notice how he favored his left side. These details matter in a melee.”

“I'll keep all that in mind for next time.”

Cassandra started, looking up and pointedly raising a brow.“Well, you cared for this one poorly. It will scar.”

“I've been told that maidens like scars.”

“ _I am not a maiden,_ ” Cassandra said, and her words were quick as her cheeks reddened further.

They had come to stand close, and she hadn't noticed. She hadn't noticed how Trevelyan had placed a tentative hand on her hip.Or that she was close enough, even, to press her nose into the woman's soft shirt.

“Not that I… Maker,” Cassandra said shakily, “I will have to find a way to dislodge this foot from my mouth.”

“It's endearing,” Trevelyan said.

They remained very still. As though a single twitch, a single breath of air, would break the spell altogether. Trevelyan with her light grip on the hem of Cassandra's shirt. Cassandra with her light brush over Trevelyan's healing wound. They were afraid to even slip.

“It would be inappropriate,” Cassandra said, and yet she did not move away from the very still Templar. I am a Seeker, and you are a Templar. It is my duty to be impartial. If things had--”

“--Don't,” she said, and she dropped the hand from Cassandra's waist. “If we're to end this here, before it ever even starts, I'd prefer to remain ignorant of what might have been.”

It stung Trevelyan. More than she thought it would sting. It wasn't as if she hadn't been infatuated before, and it was not as though she hadn't been rejected before either. This time, though… The Seeker was intoxicating. Yet steady. All at once.

“For what it's worth, I do not relish in this.”

“I don't imagine you do,” Trevelyan said gently. “Can we be friends, at least?”

Cassandra gave a dry laugh in return. “Truthfully, I still find it absurd that anyone would want to be friends with me. I have been told that I am… far too abrasive.”

“Do you find it easier to believe that I would like nothing more than to do unspeakable things to you?”

Cassandra nearly gasped as she felt a tightening pulse between her legs, and she expelled the tension with a cough. She could feel the heat of her blush in her eyes now. _Maker, stay my hand._

“I'm sorry,” Trevelyan said, and her eyes became apologetic. “That's not the sort of thing a friend should say. I'll work on that.”

*                             *                             *

Their duties took precedence, though, and they did not see each other for yet awhile. Cassandra with the Divine's missives. Trevelyan with the blasted drama slithering through every corner of the White Spire. Her temples  _itched_.

“The thief has struck again,” Knight-Corporal Ser said, opening the pantry for Trevelyan. “We'll have to lessen our rations for the week until we find the culprit.”

“Lessen?” Carroll exclaimed. “We need _more_ lyrium.”

Trevelyan frowned. “Again?”

“The song is deafening, and sometimes… I forget that we ever traveled to Orlais at all. I see Blight-Wolves around corners, and I feel as though demons are scratching at my back.”

“The men of my gleve have expressed similar concerns,” Ser said. “If it were one of my men, he would have to be an exemplary actor.”

“Not one of mine, either. We've pulled a double shift covering for one of the other banners. I've had eyes on them for days.” Carroll paused. Slowly he divulged the tentative discovery he had been turning around his head for hours; “I believe there may have been mages sneaking nearby the barracks.”

“Why didn't you say anything sooner?”

“I… I couldn't be sure. It is difficult without the lyrium to know if… I only saw him briefly. I thought he might have been another trick of the eye.”

“We can't keep this up much longer, can we?” Trevelyan resisted the urge to rub harshly against her neck. “I'll try to find out more. Meanwhile… It is not much, but… Increase their rations of food and mead, at least. And I'll approve liberty requests for any who pull a second shift.”

Trevelyan approached Enchanter D'Marcall that afternoon, cornering him on his way out of the mess hall. He frowned immediately upon catching sight of her. Not that she had been all that pleased either. They had both chafed upon learning that Regalyan would be placed within Trevelyan's chain of command.

They did not like working together, and it had only gotten worse after the display at the melee.

“And you immediately assume that a mage must be guilty?” he said, once she had voiced her concerns of lyrium theft.

“I've spoken to the other Lieutenants as well. I only wish for this matter to be dealt with quickly; I think you would agree that it would be easier for all of us if our Templars were properly supplied.”

“No, I don't agree. The lot of you have a problem. Look at you; a few weeks with a moderately limited supply of lyrium, and you can't even function. No wonder we can't trust you.”

Trevelyan rubbed at the space between her brows. She had been using her personal supply of lyrium dust to distill fresh replacement for the banner, and… A shadow. Behind Regalyan. Uldred with blood magic threading around his fingertips. Her wrist twitched. A barrier between them. Can't break it, can't escape it, can't--

“I wouldn't want you around her like this,” Regalyan said, breaking her free.

“I don't think that's your decision to make anymore.”

“She's still my friend. I'm allowed to express concern.” He forced her to look him in the eyes. “You haven't looked in the mirror recently, have you? You'd scare the darkspawn back into hiding.”

“What's your point?” she growled.

The enchanter nearly shoved the Templar back and would have had they not been bound by their stations. “She isn't like other woman. Despite that thick skin she wears, she loves deeply. She gives herself completely. Meanwhile, you've clearly got a food wedged out the door. You can't care for her properly while you're suckling at the Chantry's teat.”

The Knight-Lieutenant breathed hard through her nose.

“It was you, wasn't it?”

Regalyan opened his mouth as though he might lie. “I… Nevermind. There's no use maintaining this charade. I suppose I've already proven my point.”

“Do you have it?” she said tightly.

“Every last drop. I was only trying to… You see that there's a problem here, don't you? I'd be surprised if the space behind your eyes wasn't already completely liquified.” He paused as he searched her eyes for answers. “What will you do?”

“Put it all back,” she said as she turned away, “and we won't have a problem.”

“Is that all?”

“I care about my Templars. I can see that you… meant well. I think.” Trevelyan rubbed her eyes. Tired. Lyrium-song. Everything, dull. Not blue enough. “Regardless, I will not unnecessarily cause chaos. Consider this matter dealt with.”

“And Cassandra?”

She frowned at herself. “I will also… consider your concerns.”

*                             *                             *

Keeping her distance had not been difficult as she envisioned it would be. She only needed to bury herself in work, and with their lyrium rations restored, the grating song in her ears had finally eased. Each hit of the bluish blend cleared her mind, and soon there was only the banner and the Circle and mages.

And so Trevelyan looked between the cleric and the Knight-Captain, tall and determined and hard-set.

“We should not do this. What we've been through together… Going through with this will only agitate them.”

The cleric stepped towards Trevelyan, puffing his chest with false bravado. “If they were true Templars, their banner would hardly matter. Their faith in the Maker should sustain them. Nothing more is necessary.”

“You asked for my recommendation, and I gave it. We trust in each other. We know how to fight together. We will not be separated.”

“I don't know how you do things in Ferelden,'” the cleric said,” but this is Val Royeaux. The White Spire. You are meant to guard, not fight.”

“And yet, just a month ago, you sent us into battle with blood mages. You wanted Ferelden Templars. Well, here we are.” Trevelyan met the cleric eye to eye. “You would wield us and have us bloody our hands for _your_ sake, but when you are faced with has been done, you would look down on us with disdain. You would reject us for the sacrifices we have made in your name.”

“ _Enough_ _._ ” Knight-Captain de Brassard slammed her fist against the table as she stood. _“_ I understand your concerns, Trevelyan. Believe me. But your men… We have a climate here that we intend to maintain, and your men are disruptive of what we would aim to achieve. At least this way we can put your… experiences to use. Allow the others the benefit of your skills. It would be best if we could ensure a smooth transition.”

Trevelyan, though, only scoffed in response. “I'm sorry, Captain. I see your lips moving but there's a Chantry hand up your arse, too.”

“ _Lieutenant_.”

“Do you see?” cried the cleric. “They are disrespectful dogs.”

“Commander Greagoir never would have stood for this,” Trevelyan insisted. “He cared for us, at least, and he would have _never_ bowed down.”

Evangeline sighed. Trevelyan was passionate, to say the least.

“Greagoir is part of the old guard,” she said. “You must understand that this is bigger than you and me, Trevelyan. There is war on the horizon, and unless we act quickly to stem it… The consequences will be disastrous.”

“My men have never treated mages unfairly. We have only upheld the highest measure of professionalism. We have only done as we have been ordered.”

“I tire of this. They are not your people, Knight-Lieutenant. They, along with you, belong to the Chantry and the Maker.” The cleric smiled as he stood Trevelyan, in all her regalia, down. “Let me be clear. You were not asked here to offer your opinion. In light of your service and your _father_ , we only wished to give you the courtesy of prior notice.”

“You treat us like tools.”

“You are a Templar, and the Chantry did not hold a knife to your throat when you took your vows.” He waved his hand as though he were brushing her off. “Do not paint us as unfair. It is not as though we are expelling the lot of you from the Order. In fact, we will be increasing rations of lyrium for every last man in your banner. Be glad, at least, of your reward.”

Trevelyan clenched her fist, her ears ringing, the lyrium-song drowning _everything_ away. _Carroll was right; we need more_.

“Your new banner will report to you by the end of the week,” the Knight-Captain said solemnly. “You're dismissed.”

“ _Dismissed, aye_ ,” responded Trevelyan, and she nearly spit the words towards the cleric as she turned about. “Have yourselves a good day.”

It would be done, then. Nothing she could do about it. Nothing she _would_ do about it. Tomorrow she'd have to face the banner. Deliver the news. They'd protest, of course, but she'd have to put on a facade. _It's for the best,_ she'd say. _It'll be better for all us_. Can't disparage the command, after all.

She could already see the look of consternation pass over Carroll's face. They'd probably have him sent off to Alrik's banner. Shit.

They would nonetheless be placated. _With lyrium_. Be glad of your reward…

The night was brisk around her cheeks, even while she _burned_ beneath her armor. She wandered away from the stifling Circle, and she allowed her feet to guide her. She doubled back thrice before finding herself before the Seeker's door.

“I could use a friend right about now,” she said, her voice quiet.

Cassandra motioned Trevelyan to enter the spartan quarters. It had been a while since she had seen her last, and she had… missed the woman. Leliana provided decent enough companionship, but… she had not known the Nightingale all that much longer than she had known Trevelyan, and the spymaster unsettled her with the ease with which she played the Grand Game.

“This is… about your banner,” she broached.

“We probably shouldn't talk about it, right?” Trevelyan accepted a mug of water before finding a wooden seat. Her eyes were clouded. Her breathing short and uneven. “We don't have to talk about it. I don't actually want to, really.”

She muttered something else, something Cassandra could only barely hear.

“I didn't catch that.”

“You just… It's good, and…” Trevelyan ended with another mumble.

“Try again.”

“I… Talking to you just… It makes me feel better. There. That's what I said. Happy now?”

A wide smile broke out across Cassandra's face, startling Trevelyan altogether.“This is nice.”

“What's nice?”

“You. Stuttering. I think I am beginning to understand why you prod me so.”

“I am a terrible influence on you,” Trevelyan said, and the smile had become infectious.

Cassandra watched as Trevelyan's muscles eased; her stomach fluttered. “Yes, the infamous Marcher influence.”

“So we're infamous now? What have you heard?”

“Cheese races in Ostwick. It sounded silly.”

“Now, hold on. It really is a complicated affair. Orlesian cheeses, for instance, are soft and light, but if you can get them rolling down the hill fast enough, they're malleable. _They_ can take hits. Marcher cheeses, though… More of a gamble really. Heavy and fast. Until you hit a rock, of course. And don't even get me started on the _butter_.” Trevelyan rubbed at the back of her neck, looking away. “I may have taken part once. Or twice.”

“Or every year?”

“Yes,” she said sheepishly. “I don't actually remember much about Ostwick. Just those damned cheese races. Then, the monastery. Maker, I used to hate that place. I'd conjure up ridiculous escape plans; all I wanted was to _see_ Ostwick. Really see it.”

“Did you ever succeed?”

“Asher tried to break me out once, but he failed miserably. The Bann sent him back to Nevarra the next day. Gared might have done better, but I hardly ever saw him. Too busy strutting about as heir. So, no. I never did make it out of the monastery.” Trevelyan chortled. She couldn't remember the last time she had talked about her house. “The only sure way to give the Maker a laugh is to present him with a _plan_.”

Cassandra's eyes held a glint. “Are all your brothers like you?”

“Well, you know how it is with nobles. We're a bitter bunch, and I hardly know them, to be honest. Asher was the only one who ever bothered to visit and he lived in another country altogether.”

“Bitter is a good way to describe us.”

“You know, I met a Pentaghast once. Maybe you know him.”

Cassandra grunted with the mention of her own house. “We are a large clan. I cannot possibly know them all, nor would I want to.”

“No, but he was an enormously fat man. Three chins, four mansions, and five ways to sell you out.”

“Oh,” she said, grimacing. “Yes, I _d_ _o_ know him. Cousin Loren, with the wandering hands.”

“Wandering hands?”

“He is… a purist. He has visions for an untainted Pentaghast line.”

“ _No._ Really? You jest.”

“He is not a pleasant man.”

“Well, then I will have to smack him upside the head the next time I see him.”

Trevelyan could not remember the last time she had heard such _silence_. The lilting tones of the Seeker's accent wrapped softly around her ears, and the lyrium-song… It ceased. Her head no longer rattled with incessant whispers of _more_. _More lyrium. More blue._ _Make the abominations go away_.

“Have dinner with me,” Trevelyan blurted. “Shit, I'm sorry. I know what you said before… What we agreed upon. I just… I spent my entire life living up to what was expected of me. In all that time, I never thought to stop to even think about what _I_ wanted. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud. When I received my first draught of lyrium…”

She could not stop the damned rambling, and the longer Cassandra remained silent… Yes, she had been rejected before. She had always rolled with it, too. She had never tried again. She had never felt compelled to before, to make that hurtling leap write off the metaphorical cliff.

But now… She held her heart out to the Seeker.

“Can we at least try?” She continued to hurtle. No safety net. No stopping now. “You don't have to say anything now. Or ever. Tomorrow night. I can have dinner ready in my quarters and if you'd like to try this, you can come find me.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then we'll continue on as friends. We'll never speak of this again, and this will be the very last advance you will ever have from me.”

She stood and turned her feet away, taking her time to relish in the silence she knew would soon escape her.

“If it helps you feel better, I'm just as unsettled by all this.” Trevelyan looked back from the door. “This is new for me, too.”

 

**YOU HAVE STOOD WITH ME WHEN ALL OTHERS HAVE FORSAKEN ME.**

>> 9:41 Dragon | Haven  
>> Present Day

The army of red lyrium mages had caught them by surprise. Legions upon legions had climbed down those mountains, marching upon their little settlement. With the Breach closed... They had become complacent in their victory. They hadn't stood a chance.

Cassandra inspected the surviving Templars and soldiers. The soldiers were still green as grass and the Templars… They had not a single officer left among them, and though many had stepped up admirably, they had no structure to speak of. No gleves. No banners.

They had not been prepared for this.

She watched as Cullen approached the Herald.

The Tevinter, Dorian, tended to Chancellor Roderick. “This Elder One takes what it wants. From what I gathered in Redcliffe, it marched all this way to take your Herald.”

“Then let him have me,” Trevelyan growled.

Cassandra pretended to check over what weapons they had been able to grab. Her hand gripped her own sword tight, and her arm nearly shook with the tension. _Of all the foolish notions…_

“There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We can turn the remaining trebuchets and cause one last slide.”

“We're overrun. We'd bury Haven.”

“We're dying,” he said, with meaning only Trevelyan could understand. “But we can decide how. Many don't get that choice.”

Dorian jumped to his feet. “Well, that's not acceptable. I didn't race here only to have you drop rocks on my head.”

“We will not submit,” Cullen said.

“I only mean that dying is typically a last resort, not first! For a Templar, you think like a blood mage!”

Trevelyan crossed her arms. “He thinks as only a Templar can. But, Cullen. These people: they are not us.”

“What, then, do you suggest?”

“There is a path,” Roderick said, shifting upright, his words weak with death. “You wouldn't know it unless you have made the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me; _Andraste_ must have shown me so that I could tell you. With so many in the Conclave dead… To be the only one who remembers… I don't know, Herald. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more.”

Trevelyan readjusted her armor. Good. A plan, at least. Never mind the other _superfluous_ Andrastian shit that Roderick insisted on spewing.

“If that thing is here for me,” she said, “I'll make him fight for it.”

“And when the mountain falls?” Cullen asked. “What about you?”

She did not answer.

“May you find respite,” he finally said, sweet and gentle. _May you find escape from the lyrium-song_.

He turned away from her. Perhaps this would be a mercy.

Cassandra's chest seized. She could see the expression spread across Trevelyan's face, and she _knew_ it. She had seen it before. She knew what Trevelyan intended… She surged forward and found herself at her back.

“I will come with you.”

“I can't ask you to do that,” Trevelyan said, shaking her head as she gathered potions for her belt.

“You are asking me to do nothing. I am choosing.”

“The Inquisition can't lose the both of us,” she said, and she remained focused entirely on her preparations.

“Then you will allow me to face the beast.”

“That's not an option,” she said. She turned sharply towards the Seeker. “This Elder One wants _me_ , Pentaghast. Not you.”

“You cannot make me leave.”

Trevelyan gestured towards the refugees. “They need your faith.”

“And not yours? You are the Herald.”

Trevelyan burst with a short laugh, leaving the Seeker with a frown. She shook her head as she rewrapped the hilt of her sword, replacing slick blood-soaked leathers with a fresh grip. The chuckle lingered on her lips even as she tested the weapon.

“I keep breaking my promise,” she said, and she reached out for Cassandra. Maybe. Almost. She stopped short before pulling back. “I don't do very well with vows.”

She paused, for a moment, before digging into a pouch. She held a string of prayer beads in her hands. The wooden beads were dull and worn. The small Andrastian heraldry hanging between beads did not shine.

“Carroll was not among the Templars at Suledin. If you find him… Give this to him.” She grabbed Cassandra's hand, pressing the beads into her palm. “And tell Asher what has happened to me. He is the only one among us who has remained apart from all this, and now… Well now if _he_ dies, either the Bann will have to take up with a mistress or our cousin will steal our title.”

Trevelyan, at last, bore her shield. The Chantry doors, tall and thick, creaked open before the warrior. The corrupted mages poured through Haven and they shrieked with the song of red lyrium. Trevelyan tilted her shield downward. Tightened her fingers around her sword. The Seeker swallowed, the knot in her throat painfully preventing the release of even a single word.

“Goodbye, Cassandra.”

The Chantry doors swung shut.

 

**I HAVE FACED ARMIES WITH YOU AS MY SHIELD,**

>> 9:34 Dragon | Val Royeaux  
>> 7 Years Before the Breach

Small flames burned evenly through wax, dancing delicately in time with a silent song.

Trevelyan had considered for hours which shirt she might wear, which in and of itself was a rather silly endeavor considering she did not have many shirts beyond what had been issued to her by the Chantry. She settled, finally, on a white tunic. Or should she go with the black?

She fidgeted.

Paced.

Sat down before jumping up again.

When she had rebuked the cleric's path for that of the Templar, she had frankly done so with romantic grandeur tickling the back of her head. She had always preferred swordplay, of course, and the promises of brotherhood had attracted her, but there had also been the _romance_. She could remember, still, Asher's stories, from those few times when he had been able to visit her in the monastery.

Knights of the King's court.

Tourneys and melees and the favor of a lady fair.

He had spun tales of chivalrous warriors who had hunted dragons, a token tucked behind a breastplate, or tied to the belt. But she remembered most his stories a Champion who through falling in love with the Queen had sundered his heart through and through.

As she took her vows, nearly a decade later, she remembered those stories still.

She could hunt dragons, too. Adorned in shining armor, she could court ladies, too, and what a tale it would be.

But the realities of duty had eventually descended. Oh, there had been a few trysts here and there. Relationships that had scarcely lasted more than a month. She'd left behind woman before. There had never been enough time. There had always been more work and more duties, and no one had ever seemed worthy enough to merit the efforts of _passionate_ romance.

She had certainly never felt like this before, and she had certainly never _waited_ for a… date.

She sat down again. Shook her knee up and down and up and down.

The door did not open.

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it had. It did, though, and there was nothing Trevelyan could do. She stepped through the empty room as she blew out each candle, extinguishing the miniature flames.

*                             *                             *

Cassandra emerged from the Knight-Commander's chambers. She had avoided the White Spire all week, and it had taken Leliana's insistence that _she_ should be the one to address the commanding Templar's concerns. She had frowned when Leliana had chased her out the door with singsong words.

“If you will not bed her,” she had said, “perhaps I will. She is quite pleasing to the eye.”

She had frowned, of course. The thought of the Nightingale and her Templar together…

But she could not very well lay claim on Trevelyan. She had made her choice, hadn't she? The Chantry comes first. Her _duty to the Maker_ must come first. She would have to be done with this

And then she had seen her training in the courtyard with her new banner.

She could not take her eyes away.

With a smile, Trevelyan caught her gaze, and Cassandra thought with a pang that the smile had been wistful and guarded. The knight gave a small nod, too, before turning away and back to her banner. All the while, Cassandra stayed. She did not want to think that she had hurt her. And she did not want to pretend as though she hadn't hurt her.

She wanted to talk to her. As they had out at camp. And in her quarters, too. She wanted the theatrics, and the romance. She wanted it all, and believed finally that she might have it all, and somehow she did not understand. She did not have time for romance.

But Maker, she wanted to…

_No, don't think about that._

She watched from the outskirts as Trevelyan stepped between the men. _No, that isn't a murderstroke. Grip the blade and don't be afraid. It won't cut you._ _Demons won't cower, neither should you._ Drill after drill. Order after order. The sun beat down on their armor. Sweat dripped down Trevelyan's temples as she thrust her own weapon relentlessly against her Corporal's shield, gripping the sword by both the hilt and the blade. _There's more than one way to hold a weapon. You'll never know who you'll face. Think you won't need to half-sword? What if the Qunari come for the Chantry? Templars and mages, alike? Be prepared._

She commanded. Stoic. Unbreakable.

Cassandra felt a heat creep up her neck, the desire to settle between those legs. She thought she should have left. She did not. Could not.

By late morning, the youngest Templar had fled for the bushes, vomiting violently (much to Trevelyan's approval) with exertion spent. Cassandra's heart warmed when she thought she caught a brief but proud smile on Trevelyan's lips.

The banner dispersed, and Cassandra found that she could not leave. She wanted, so desperately, to see that smile once more.

“Lieutenant,” she said, approaching the lone knight. “A word?”

Cassandra didn't wait for Trevelyan to answer, and she bounded forward, leading into one of those strange winding hallways that was often left unfrequented by most.

“What did you want to--”

Trevelyan felt the breath knocked out of her as Cassandra pressed her against the stone cold wall. She felt a hand grasp the edge of her breastplate. Another snaked around the back of her neck. Cassandra kissed her. Nothing scandalous: just a kiss. A taste.

And yet it burned with bundled fervor.

“That was… unexpected.”

“Shut up,” Cassandra breathed. “Tell me what the dinner would have been like.”

Trevelyan blinked. “The dinner?”

“Yes. The one I was supposed to have… attended.”

A pause before she leaned in, catching the Seeker by the corner of her lips.

“A veritable feast,” she said. “Oysters from the Waking Sea. The finest wine in all of Thedas. Candles and flowers literally everywhere. You'd be surprised how much of mess they can make. Don't really talk about that bit in the books.”

“What happens?”

“You knock on the door. I open it, but I stand there like a stuttering moron, because you happen to be absolutely breathtaking. It takes a good while, but I invite you in. We eat. I feed you--”

“-- _Ugh,_ ” she muttered, trying very hard not to lose control of the twitch in her lips. “You do not feed me.”

“Fine, you can feed me, then. Is that better? You feed me oysters and we sip wine and we share in a ridiculously romantic dinner.”

“Do we kiss?”

“Oh, yes. A kiss to make any cloister sister blush.”

“And what do you do after?”

“I pull away. Very reluctantly. And I walk you back, because I aim to be chivalrous and I am very determined to properly court you. To respect your honor.”

Cassandra growled as she tugged tighter at Trevelyan“Must I say it again? I am no maiden.”

“Do you pull me into your quarters, then?”

“ _Maker, yes_.”

A heated kiss, barreling through their guts like a spinning ball of fire. Opened mouth and desperate. A thigh between Cassandra's legs. Pressure. Friction. A roll of the hips and…

A gasp. Orphaned and drifting into the air. Shared.

“Tell me you thought of me that night,” Trevelyan said, into the kiss.

She groaned in response. “I did.”

“Did you…?”

“ _Yes._ ”

The thigh between Cassandra's legs hitched. Broke the rhythm. Cassandra buried her face into Trevelyan's shoulder. A whimper and a moan all mangled into one.

_Shit._

Trevelyan pulled the Seeker around the corner, quickly throwing a hand over her mouth.

“Shh! Quiet.” She attempted to stifle a laugh. “I think it's the First Enchanter.”

Footsteps clattered through the hall. A voice echoed against the walls – a muffled conversation. Trevelyan slowly removed her hand from Cassandra's mouth. Still and silent. They relished in one another. _Shared_ in it. Only the muffled conversation and footsteps and their steady mingling heartbeats.

Beautiful.

The footsteps trailed away. Sharp clicks and clacks.

“So,” Trevelyan finally said. “A memorable night, then.”

“I'm sorry that I missed it,” Cassandra breathed.

“What made you change your mind?”

“You,” she said. “When I saw you… I appear to lack the discipline to stay away.”

Trevelyan smiled as she kissed Cassandra's neck. “You're not the only one.”

 

**AND THOUGH I BEAR SCARS BEYOND COUNTING,**

>> 9:41 Dragon | Frostback Mountains  
>> Present Day

No one could see past the swirling snow of the blizzard, but they could feel the air shake with the crumbling of a mountain. The wind shivered with the shock. Cassandra could not breathe. She could not even look back.

It took hours to set up their bivouac. They warred against the storm, struggling to keep the shelters pegged to the ice. The tents cracked and snapped taut with every rush of wind. They were warm, at least. Finally.

Cullen, though, shivered with a cold sweat.

“You will become hypothermic,” Cassandra said as she handed him dry rags.

“Thank you for being here, Seeker.” Cullen gritted his teeth. “It pains me that this has become necessary.”

“What you are attempting to do… It is admirable.”

“I am beginning to believe that it is ill-timed as well.”

Cassandra cracked a weak smile. “It would not do to have a delirious Commander, and to be honest, I am glad for the distraction.”

“We… I am sorry that we could not--”

“--You knew the Herald, yes?” Cassandra clenched her eyes shut. “In Ferelden.”

“Trevelyan, yes. I don't… She must have arrived just before the abominations… This damn lyrium treats memories as though they are tinder.”

“She never spoke much of what happened.”

“Torture,” he snapped. “There is not much more to say.”

“ _I gathered_. The Seekers… looked into the matter.”

“Blamed us, you mean.” He twitched and scratched hard at his skin. He spoke frantically, stuttering as though he had forgotten that Cassandra's presence. “I'm sorry. I know what you meant. It is just that… Greagoir meant well. He was a good Commander – better than Meredith. He sent me to Greenfell, but the rest he kept together, and the lyrium… It makes the nightmares go away.”

Cullen breathed hard through his nose, the walls of the tent snapping around them. She could almost see the way he attempted to reach out towards his own mind. Hold it tight. Never let it go. As though that were at all possible.

“Do you love her?” he asked, looking towards Cassandra with distant eyes.

“You mean… Trevelyan.” She tried not to think about the _cold_. “I… I do.”

“You should tell her when she gets back.”

“What do you--”

“--When she gets back I will tell her,” Cullen muttered. “I would not have struck her down, and it would have been… inappropriate. I serve the Chantry and the Maker, but I would have refused… I'm just glad she's all right. She deserves to know; I did not want to run away from her.”

The Commander swung, catching the back of his fist against a pitcher of water, sending it careening across the tent. His throat exploded with a guttural yell as he smashed it to pieces.

“This trick again? No! It won't work! Enough visions… Using my shame against me… My ill-advised infatuation with her… Kill me now and stop this game.” He shivered. “They caged us like animals… looked for ways to break us… They turned some into monsters, and there was nothing I could do. Only mages… The sounds coming out from there… Oh, Maker… They corrupted our thoughts… The Maker knows my sin, and I pray He will forgive me. _Stop this game._ ”

She had known, with Trevelyan, what to do. How to anticipate. With Cullen… There was not much she could do other than ensure he did not lash out, to hold him back should he reach for the lyrium stores. And through it all, he spoke words she wanted to both hear and purge. Where Trevelyan had pursed her lips, trembling and even crying at times with the tension of bottled memories, Cullen drowned. He sputtered because the words were his anchor.

“No one ever listens,” he said, and he fell when he attempted to stand. “Not until it's far too late.”

Though small, Cassandra was strong, and it did not take much for her to hold him down, to keep him from flailing. To keep him from hurting himself. She reached for a bucket and placed it beside his head. He immediately retched. Bile plinked against the bottom of the tin container.

“Did you help her, too?” he asked, his throat rough with the burn of his stomach acids.

“When I could,” she whispered.

“We were only trying our best, Seeker,” Cullen said, and though his words had become slower (calmer, even), his eyes remained addled. “You cannot condemn us. I cannot profess to know what you Seekers do to stray Templars, but you cannot condemn her. You cannot punish her.”

Cassandra's throat had become dry as she placed the Commander's mind. He muttered long through the night, whispering of Ferelden and Kirkwall, and _Please give us the lyrium, Seeker, we were only doing our duty; we were only serving the Chantry_.

By the morning, Cullen had regained his mind and his poise. And, embarrassed, he avoided Cassandra's gaze as he quietly thanked her. He avoided her gaze still as they convened.

They did not yet know where to go. They did not know the way forward, and even though the sky had cleared and settled, chaos reigned between them. Josephine reacted with fear. Cullen with fatigue. Leliana spoke, almost, as though they were fleeing darkspawn.

But the storm had passed, and that was all Cassandra could think of.

She grabbed a cloak as she stepped away from the fire.

“I must go back,” she said, when she felt Leliana's presence behind her.

The Nightingale pulled the Seeker back. “To what end?”

“We cannot leave her out there.”

“Cassandra, you must respect her choice.”

“I will not.”

“ _Cassandra_ ,” Leliana pleaded. “We must go on.”

“ _She is not dead._ ” Cassandra shed her sword for a shovel, and she ignored Leliana as she slung it over her shoulder. “I will not leave her.”

Cullen, recognizing the Nightingale's fight with the Seeker, fell into step beside them. “It is an honorable end.”

“Do not say that,” Cassandra spat.

“We're dying.” He spoke with scorched eyes, the familiar words at home in the cleft of his lip. “She, at least, chose for her death to mean something. You know that most of us are not afforded such a luxury. A kind end did not await her.”

“ _She is alone_ ,” she said, surprising Cullen with her fire. “And if she is… Even if she is… I will bring her home.”

Despite Leliana's mild protests, the Commander nodded his assent, gesturing a small banner of soldiers forward to Cassandra's side. Blackwall said nothing as he joined the party, and he pressed forward relentlessly, his cheeks burning with cold and his beard frozen solid. His solemn face read of repentance.

Cassandra led the search party, alone at the forefront, and she leaned into the wind, her eyes tearing up with the harsh stinging cold.

The last time she had touched her… She had touched her with such anger. She had wanted to _prove_ to Trevelyan that she could not simply be tossed aside, to _show_ her what she had left behind. She had wanted to _teach_ her a lesson.

She had not been gentle. But she should have been gentle. She should have savored every moment.

It had been their last time…

Maker, she would die believing that she hated her.

She threw her legs harder against the snow. Her lips chafed with the cold as she prayed, mouthing each word over and over and over, her fingers running over Trevelyan's beads: O Maker, hear my cry. The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace. O Maker, hear my cry. O Maker, hear my cry.

 _Please. This cannot be the Maker's plan_.

Despite prayers, despite her faith, she could not help but imagine Trevelyan lying beneath the snow, cold and still. Alone.

She did not recognize this feeling. This sense of loss. Even when Trevelyan had left Val Royeaux all those years ago, and even when she had realized that she would not return, she had not felt this way.

This was different. Permanent.

The landscape before them, blanketed with thick layers of snow, remained painfully untouched and clear. No sight of Trevelyan.

“We can resume the search tomorrow,” Blackwall said, his eyes gentle.

“There is still daylight yet.”

Blackwall regarded her before nodding. “Very well. I will scout east. If she survived… We don't know which way she might have gone.”

She would not stop searching. She could not stop searching. She would search through the night if necessary. Through the dark. Through the sunless cold.

“There!” The young voice of one of Cullen's recruit rung out over the pass. “It's her!”

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed, and she plowed her numb shins through the snow. She fell to her knees as she pulled the cold body into her arms. A feint pulse; she could feel it. “Thank you.”

She could see the recruit out of the corner of her eye, still standing beside them flabbergasted and gaping and awed by the Herald of Andraste. She tightened her hold on Trevelyan as she bellowed at him over the mountain wind; “What are you doing, you fool? _Get help_.”

The recruit stumbled away, falling as he sprinted through the snow bank.

Cassandra cupped Trevelyan's cheek as she cradled her close, and she tried not to think of how she had become stiff with cold. How her skin had become dusted with frost. She tried desperately to warm the warrior with her own body. To hold her as she should have.

As she might have.

“You _are_ the woman I fell in love with,” she whispered. “Please, do not leave me again.”

 

 **NOTHING** **CAN BREAK ME EXCEPT YOUR ABSENCE.**

>> 9:34 Dragon | Val Royeaux  
>> 7 Years Before the Breach

Trevelyan practically fell into Cassandra's quarters but even then, she seemed tentative. Unsure. As though the Seeker might change her mind and reject her after all.

“I want this,” Cassandra said hoarsely, and she grabbed Trevelyan's hand, slipped lithe fingers down the front of her breeches. Guiding the hand through coarse dark curls. “Allow me prove it to you. Perhaps you will believe what you feel.”

_She was wet. Slick. Fingers brushed against skin, and she jerked, ever so slightly, in response._

“Maker, preserve me,” Trevelyan whispered, and Cassandra gasped, bucking as strong fingers instinctively curled.

Her fingers dipped between wet folds, explored and spread her apart. She _engulfed_ her. She tightened around her fingers. Pulled her in. Deeper and harder and… Trevelyan watched as Cassandra's labored breaths became a song, a short staccato beat that ghosted through the air, its notes subtle and sweet. Beautiful in pitch.

Her free hand threaded through the soft wisps of hair lining Cassandra's neck, hairs that had fallen from the elastic that had once so neatly held it all back. Cassandra, eyes closed, rolled against Trevelyan's hand. She anchored herself inside her, and she became mesmerized.

“I want to see you,” she said.

She pulled her fingers away, kissing the small whimper away from Cassandra's lips.

They tugged at buttons and belts, yanking hard at each frustratingly difficult fastening. A competition. The breeches come off first, a flurry of kicks and pulls. The shirt stretched over Cassandra's head, and…

The fabric tangled between her arms.

“Wait,” Trevelyan laughed as their backs hit the bed. “Let me.”

She freed Cassandra from the shirt before tossing it across the room. She laughed again as the Seeker hid her face behind her arms.

“That was undignified,” she mumbled.

“Yes, well, your delightful bosoms more than make up for it,” Trevelyan teased, and she straddled Cassandra. Gently peeled her arms away. Freed her for a kiss.

Cassandra laughed as she loosened Trevelyan's tunic. “I was not aware that my _bosoms_ were delightful.”

“The most delightful bosoms in all of Thedas.” Trevelyan pulled the tunic off over her head. She looked down at the Seeker; “What is it?”

No answer; Cassandra forward and wrapped her lips around Trevelyan's breast, sucking and twisting and grazing her teeth against the hardened nipple. She could feel her, wet against her legs, and _Maker, she wants me, too_.

As though that had ever been up for debate at all.

“Enough,” Cassandra murmured. “Take me. Now.”

Treveylan pushed her back. Slid farther down the body. Traced with every muscle, every sensitive scar, with the pad of her thumb. Cassandra's legs fell open, and Treveylan buried her tongue between folds. A hand descended, anchoring against her head and pulling her closer… _Please_. _There. I want you. Please._

A strangled cry escaped her lips, and Trevelyan played her like a lute. _Add a finger; another gasp, another moan._ _Lips wrapped around her clit; her hips roll and her voice climbs and climbs and climbs, reaching for that higher register._ A new music, a new dance. Drowning all else away.

Lyrics wove through the song, too:

“ _Yes_ ,” she cried, her words fast and nimble, her hand pulling at Trevelyan's hair. “ _Yes, there right there. Maker, please don't stop. Never stop. I'm close, Evelyn, I'm--_ ”

The final crescendo.

A _shuddering_ crescendo. Thundering through them. Rippling out into the air.

Trevelyan held her through the music. Closed her eyes. Bottled it up and kept it close. She closed her eyes and knew she never wanted the music to end.

Cassandra pulled the Templar back into her arms, burying her face into her skin, finding purchase against her. Legs pressed tight. Another jerk. The aftershocks of those final chords. She could say little. She could only bring her fingers to wander down between Trevelyan's thighs.

But Trevelyan stopped her. Stilled her. The caesura. The semibreve rest.

“Give me a moment,” she said, and with a gentle thumb she brushed back matted strands of sweat-soaked hair. “I want to remember this.”


End file.
